Lights
by sondering
Summary: 1940's jazz Jacinter for tlc ship weeks.


**For tlcshipweeks, I choose to do a Jacinter pic for "Lights." Billie Holiday inspired.**

Winter could hear them behind the closed curtains.

She could hear the speaker introducing her, she could feel the audience's non-withering gaze on the speaker, and soon to be, _her._

Winter counted up to ten and then back down to one. This she did over and over and over again to calm her nerves. To cease her ever increasing heartbeat and what she thought was her knees shaking.

 _Breathe, Lady Day._

This would be her first time ever performing on a _show_ and ever performing to such a huge audience in general. Winter was so used to singing in small cafes and bars and clubs: never a night live show at Luna. No, this would be a do or die. This would either make or break her. This was her one chance to shine, to rise, to really see the sunrise in his smile after she'd be done.

Her producer and manager, Jacin Clay, had first seen her in one of the nightclubs he happened to attend. He and his other wealthy and well-respected musicians, Carswell Thorne and Ze'ev Kesley, were all huddled around a table, playing cards and drinking their night away, not caring about the responsibilities in the morning. She recognized them instantly. They were the hottest producers and musicians around the country, and to see them in person - especially performing for them - was such a big deal to Winter. Although she was most certainly positive that they came to see the upcoming and more famous singer, Cress Darnel, somehow Winter persuaded Mr. Clay into giving all eyes on her and her only. She was, after all, only a Negro from way down south in Birmingham, Alabama. A very underrated singer with an electrifying and soulful voice. Mr. Clay described it as _"honey dripping from the honeycomb, like the birds chirping whimsically in the wee hours of the morning, the piano and the saxophone and those trumpets only accentuating such raw and authentic lyrics and voice."_

She had worn her classic white, silky gown that she'd tailored herself. The pearls that were very hard to obtain, especially for negroes living in the 1940's, yet Winter had inherited that pearl necklace from her late Papa who kept it stashed in his safe from his mother until the day he died.

He used to always tell her after playing the piano for her: _"my baby's gonna be a star someday. Rememba' that this life's here's uh hustle but as long as you bustle you gon' be successful."_ This, Winter would always hold deeply in her heart.

 _This life's here's uh hustle but as long as you bustle, you gon' be successful._

So, Winter preceded on and sang in black-owned restaurants, black cafes, black bars, black clubs, and somehow paved her way into singing in the white ones. How God ever found mercy on her to be singing in front of _the_ Sir Clay and his men was beyond her. Was it luck or was it God? She knew for sure that it was coincidental how Mr. Clay sought after a little black girl from Birmingham and not his original prey, the Marilyn Monroe picture-perfect dubbed singer Cress Darnel.

But she sang anyway. She sang after Cress Darnel's standing ovation. Winter had to admit, the girl had talent but mediocre when comparing the amount of attention she got from it. She remebered seeing a casual yet entranced smirk on Mr. Thorne's face throughout her entire performance, making Winter more nervous if she could ever top that. Winter had been told countless times before: from her Papa, her peers, and any folk that would listen to her - she had the voice, she had the style, but she didn't have the perfect beauty standard look. This would always be her weakness and would always keep her below her white peers. It was quite confusing and frustrating at times what people would tell her: you have the look but you don't have _the look_. In other terms, she had her own style, own look, own beauty that made it hard to stray away from her face for nearly a second, but because of the fact that she did not have the slender nose, the rosy slim lips, the blonde hair, and the pale white skin, she would not make it as far. But Winter still sang because it made her happy. She sang because it made her free even if life didn't treat her free.

So like any other day, she sang her heart out in that bar. Primarily, for Mr. Clay to hear.

To this day, she could remember what she first sang to him: Strange fruit

It was to pay homage to her late Papa who was lynched and burned at the stake by a mob. She saw those men haul him up after being found with a white woman, Levana was the girl's name. Winter knew the actual truth, but poor Papa would never have been given the chance to justify himself. _She_ came on to _him_. But he had to pay the price.

So she stood gracefully, already captivating everyone's attention. Whether it'd be her unusual beauty or the color of her skin that took people aback, the jazzy dark tune of the piano, or the way Winter composed herself with such regalness that went beyond a black person's capability, she did not know. She only knew that she'd silenced the audience with her stage presence, and of them, Mr. Clay himself.

She knew this because she dared to lock eyes with him.

He locked eyes with her back. Those icy, blue eyes.

From then on out, they'd been two peas in a pod. Two lovebirds that spoke the words of love and lived the word of love but never actually spoke those three words to each other in fear of the world around them. It was forbidden. It was taboo. In a sense, it was strange fruit indeed.

Winter remembered after her performance going backstage to gather her belongings and jetting out of the bar before having to get into any mischief like she did the night before, barely thinking about a Mr. Clay or any of his men.

Yet he was waiting for her outside in the rain, his umbrella towering over his newly gelled blonde hair and his tailored black and white tux. He had a cigarette in the side of his mouth, looking rather impatient.

"And where might you be going on this fine evening?" He asked.

Winter arched an eyebrow. "Home, Mr. Clay."

Sir Clay eyed her up and down questionably, each gaze making her feel uncomfortable and rather inferior. Dipping his head so that she had no choice but to make eye contact with him, he introduced himself. "Call me Jacin, Lady Day."

 _Lady Day._

Lady Day was what everyone around New Orleans had called her, so how could he have known that?

She tilted her head to the side. "And how might've you known my nickname, _Jacin_ Clay." It felt peculiar to actually pronounce his full name. Not a "sir" or a "mr." Just his name. It was something she'd have to get used to.

"I've only been in New Orleans for a day and I've already heard such praises about your _goddess-like perfection_ and from the looks of it, your goddess-like voice."

Winter was taken aback. Was this man flirting with her? Not just _any_ man, but Jacin Clay himself? Not only was he off bounds, but he always struck her and the world as someone who was well reserved, stoic, and even cruel.

Winter walked up slowly to him, her heels clattering and splashing in the rain until she was under the umbrella with him. A bold move it was, but what a bold young lady she was also. Winter followed the rules, but she wasn't one to be afraid of them like other black folk. One too many times had she been almost caught breaking them than she did following them fearfully.

"Did I live up to your expectations _Jacin Clay_?" She teased.

Now it was Sir Clay's turn to look taken aback. Alarmed at such close proximity she was to him, nervous at her flirting gesture, not sure of what to come up with next. This was something that his co-worker _Carswell Thorne_ came up with the idea of and was used to, not him.

His piercing gaze never strayed from her golden-brown eyes. "Beyond them, Lady Day."

Winter smiled. "Is there a reason you stopped me from my cab, Mr. Clay?"

His expression remained serious. "Yes, there is. I want to work with you. You have something that's rare yet needed in the industry. You have a voice that feels like honey dripping from the honeycomb, like the birds chirping whimsically in the wee hours of the morning, the piano and the saxophone and those trumpets only accentuating such raw and authentic lyrics and voice. With me, I'll make you a star. I already have quite a few ideas on what I can do with you, Lady Day. What we can do _together_."

If it was capable for her dark brown skin to show it, Winter was as red as a tomato. Her cheeks were burning.

"You've never came across to me as a poetic kind of guy."

"I've never came off as a patient one either. Look, would you like to know the real reason as to why I came to this nightclub?"

Winter only stared him straight in his eyes.

He continued. "The real reason I came down here to New Orleans is to hear _you_ sing. Cress Darnel was only a mere second choice. I've heard many wonderful things about you in Chicago, so I had to come here to see you for myself. So what do you say, _Lady Day_?"

Winter held her head up high. "I say yes."

And from then on out, they were inseparable.

* * *

"Introducing Lady Day herself, Winter Hayle!"

Winter inhaled and exhaled, trying to tame her pounding heart as she heard claps from the other side of the curtain. She quickly glanced towards the left of her where Jacin was backstage, casting him a small grin.

He nodded his head in return.

For what seemed like eternity but in reality was a couple of seconds, the red curtains unfolded, leaving Winter standing in her red dress and white fur coat, a flower atop the side of her head with the mic close to her mouth.

She used the grand piano as leverage, giving a head nod to the pianist.

 _This is it,_ she thought. _This is my make it or break it._

Winter and Mr. Clay had worked so hard on this song, and so far to come this far. This specific song meant so much to her, considering the fact that she'd been in abusive and no good relationships in the past with many, many men that wished death upon her. They were either men that were slaves to their addictions, men that thought they could cross her, or men who just weren't compatible with her. But then Mr. Clay came along, becoming her friend as he did her secret lover. Her partner in crime as well as her partner in the music industry. She'd wrote these lyrics herself, and with that, Mr. Clay formed chords to it. _Beautiful_ chords. Chords that somehow aligned with her pain whenever he played a minor chord, or happiness whenever he played a major one, and together...

Together they somehow made a build up. Gradually, each chord became apart of a missing piece to a puzzle, all of them relying on each other because one without the other wouldn't sound the same.

So she sang and closed her eyes as she did so, not wanting the audience to get the best of her so soon.

 _Sometimes clinging to a cloud ain't as easy as it seems._

 _Sometimes clinging to a cloud ain't as easy as it seems._

 _But we try, and we try, and we try, and we try._

 _And baby, we try._

 _And we try, and we try, try._

At some point, Winter fluttered her eyes open, no longer nervous or anxious or afraid. She was giddy now. Giddy with the oncoming lyrics and engulfing the moment of the present ones. Cherishing the sad notes while anticipating the happy notes, the build up.

 _All we have is time and chances._

 _Highs and lows, and happenstances._

 _Why ain't my love for free._

 _If I, I told you I_

 _Could build us a house in the sky with one blink of an eye_

 _Would you make a set of wings and fly?_

The crowd full of people started warming up to her and nodding their heads in approval. She could feel it. As much as she was glad they enjoyed it, Winter was really only here for one thing and one thing only.

She was here to sing for herself. With every strike of a chord and note of a lyric came an external release from internal pain. Every note and every lyric that passed by symbolized her being set free. Winter wasn't here for pleasing people. No, they were only mere accessories. She was here because music was her therapy, her salvage, and her savior.

As she ended up closing, the crowd immediately clapped. Some even got on their feet and whistled.

Winter gracefully bowed, and once the curtain closed she immediately turned her head to look at one person and one person only.

Mr. Jacin Clay.

He had a smile on his face. A smile so big that Winter couldn't have mistaken it as none other than sunshine. He clapped along with the rest of the backstage members, and before Winter knew it, she flung herself towards him.

"We did it," Winter murmured in his newly tailored suit. "We really did it."

"Yes, Lady Day." He hugged her back as tight as he could. " _You_ did it."


End file.
